


Moonlight

by zigostia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-21 17:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14289630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia
Summary: “You were having a nightmare,” Sherlock said.John took a moment before responding. “A nightmare,” he said. “Yeah.”“That I—”“That you were—yes.”





	Moonlight

Sherlock’s attention was captured and taken away by a small scuffling sound.

He opened his eyes, irritated gaze scanning the room. Landing on the shoddy motel bed—the only one left, and “amazing” at the price it was at. Which was to say, both were equally low. He opened his mouth, fully set on reminding John yet again of the importance of not being interrupted while he was working, and especially since John was sleeping—honestly, it really shouldn’t be that hard—then he heard that noise again, that quiet scuffle, and then he saw the twisted blankets and thought, _Oh._

Scuffle—no, not a scuffle, a whimper. John turned onto his back, his head tilted to the side. His forehead was damp, shimmering in the light that trickled through the thin curtains.

Sherlock momentarily shifted his thoughts away from the case. He stood up. Walked, footsteps silken, bare feet soundless over cheap wooden planks. Stopping at the side of the bed.

At this distance, John’s features came into detail. His brow was creased, his lips pressed together in a tight, thin line. Even when dreaming, even in a nightmare—refusing to cry out. Eyes screwed shut. Fingers twitching, tightening, crumpling the duvet in a white-knuckled grip.

Sherlock examined this with not so much fascination more than a scientific eye: exhibit A, John Watson having a nightmare. _Stays relatively quiet. Tends to cling onto things. Displays signs of anger, fear, and grief._

A military flashback, most likely. PTSD never truly went away. Despite the lack of a limp that was a limp no longer, despite the rock-steady hands, powder marks dusted over calloused fingers, despite the abnormal attraction to potential areas of danger (example: Sherlock). There was, still, the jolting awake in damp bed sheets, mornings where he’d come downstairs with dulled, averted eyes. Sherlock knew better than to speak up then. But now, with him actually present in the room…

On cue, John whimpered again.

Uncertain, Sherlock swayed on the spot. Should he attempt to comfort him? Well—yes—obviously. Helping your best friend (that thump in his heart once again, every time; best friend—was he truly? Or, possibly, more? For once, this was an area Sherlock felt trepidation towards treading across) by waking him from a traumatic nightmare, good.

(Filing information away on said best friend’s symptoms, reactions, and body language while he was having said nightmare, not so much.)

So: help, then.

Sherlock reached out a hand. It hovered in the air above John’s shoulder. Sherlock noted the way the heat rolled off of him in waves—body temperature increased significantly, possibly from the heart rate? If only he had a sphygmomanometer on hand—

Not now. Focus.

Comfort. Not his strong subject. Sherlock considered the optimal way to approach this. Human touch could potentially be triggering, but it could also release endorphins and various calming chemicals. Waking them from the nightmare was a reasonable decision, however attempting to wake the subject may induce panic and shock at the sudden change in scenario.

Slowly, Sherlock let his hand lower until it settled onto John’s shoulder, a careful feather-light touch. Skin against skin, separated by thin cotton.

John’s features tightened, then released, then twisted again. His shoulder jerked underneath Sherlock’s palm. His mouth opened, lips moving between breaths.

Sherlock’s eyes stilled on John’s lips, reading the silent words: _Sherlock,_ John mouthed. Perhaps he was waking up?

“John?” Sherlock murmured, barely above a hush, for what reason he was unsure.

No response. John turned his head to Sherlock’s hand, nose bumping against his knuckles.

Sherlock’s fingers twitched, conflicted between withdrawing versus welcoming the touch. Leaning towards the latter, he found.

 _Sherlock,_ again. Lips barely brushing, warm wispy breath along his hand.

With a sharp inhalation John suddenly shifted, turning to the other side. Sherlock’s hand was drawn back, unsure.

It was getting worse. John’s breathing came heavy, mouth open, darkening sheen of sweat along his brow. _Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock._

_God, no._

Sherlock sucked in an abrupt breath. “John.” The word tumbled out without his command.

Another tiny noise. Barely-audible gasp. “Sherlock,” John mumbled, his arms pushing, grabbing, yanking at the blanket.

A dam broke in Sherlock’s mind, flooding it with thought. His hand reached out, again without his command but rather out of a curious instinct; to touch (to hold?). “John, it’s alright.”

Thrashing. Arms, outstretched, reaching. Eyes still shut, moisture gathering at the corners, threatening to fall.

Sherlock’s breathing was shallow. “John,” he murmured, then abruptly raised his voice. “John. Wake up. John!”

With a gasp, John’s eyes snapped open.

“Sherlock!” and then, head rising up, turning, eyes catching, “Sherlock?”

“Hello,” Sherlock said quietly.

John’s eyes roamed over him, taking him in.

His head fell back onto the pillow. He raised an arm over his face, sucking in deep breaths, fast and sharp, chest heaving, shoulders shaking.

With a jolt, Sherlock realized that he was crying. Quietly, yes—that was how John cried, tiny gasps and muffled whimpers.

“John,” Sherlock started, not entirely sure of what he was saying, but feeling like he needed to say _something._

“Sherlock,” John said. “Oh, god. Can I—can I just—” His hands tightened into fists and then unclenched, spasming out. His gaze flicked to Sherlock’s, large and open, frantic, wild.

Sherlock took in John’s body language, the incline towards him, the wringing of his hands.

His eyes widened fractionally, but John caught it.

John grimaced. “I’m sorry. I’m not, this is—”

Swiftly, and without a word, Sherlock lowered himself onto the bed, arranged himself across from John, and gathered him into his arms.

John made a small helpless noise in his throat and shuddered, his hands reaching, grabbing, clutching to Sherlock’s neatly-pressed shirt, wrinkling the front. Curling in closer. One of his hands coming around up to Sherlock’s neck, pressing lightly at a spot on the side.

Sherlock ran a hand down John’s back. He breathed in deeply, prompting for John to do the same. In, out. Gently. Easy, now.

They remained like that for a while, neither of them saying a word.

Very faintly, Sherlock noticed the hint of alarm that sprang up in his mind, in address to the sudden spike in his pulse, in address to John. Who, albeit wading in subconsciousness, his thoughts blurred by sleep, somewhere in his mind, wanted—wanted. And, Sherlock, the overwhelming urge of _wanting_ back.

“You,” John started, his voice dying down after one word.

“I’m” _(alive)_ “here,” Sherlock said quietly. “Alright?”

“Yes,” John said, voice barely discernible. “Alright. You’re alright. It’s—fine, it’s all fine.”

Another pause.

“You were having a nightmare,” Sherlock said.

John took a moment before responding, his breaths hitching every few seconds. “A nightmare. Yeah.”

“That I—” Sherlock paused.

John grabbed on to the fragment and continued it himself. “That you were—yes.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said merely, unsure how far to step would be considered wise before this unique and fragile thing that defined the two of them shattered into something unfixable. Perhaps he had already crossed it.

“I’m sorry,” John mumbled. He smelled like wool and sweat and the cheap shampoo in the hotel shower.

“You’ve no reason to be.”

“No, I…” John made a noise in his throat, thick and frustrated. “The nightmares. I can’t control them.”

“They wouldn’t be called nightmares otherwise,” Sherlock pointed out.

John huffed a laugh. “Yeah. It’s just. I’m sorry I’m…” He sighed and burrowed closer. Sherlock felt something warm bloom in his chest, something he couldn’t pin down—a sensation he’d begun to associate with one thing, person, in particular.

“In my dream—in real life, back then—I thought I lost you.”

With that John fell silent, and Sherlock, in an attempt to sustain this moment, to suspend it for as long as possible, spoke up.

“I should be the one apologizing,” he said, “but believe me, John, there was no other choice.”

“I know,” John said. “It’s just… Why didn’t you tell me, Sherlock? Molly, your parents, a hundred homeless people—”

“Twenty-five at most—”

John barked out a laugh. “Why, Sherlock? Why keep me in the dark?”

Sherlock felt uncertainty creeping in, but John was small and solid in his arms, and everything was padded with the velvet cushion of late-nights and early-mornings, the haze of sleep, and he could feel John’s fingers, hot on the side of his neck; John’s heart, his breaths, against him, meeting as one.

“I couldn’t tell you because I knew that if I did, there was no way I would’ve been able to stay away.” The words tumbled out like rocks down a cliff. “I had to leave London. If I told you, John, if I let you into my plan, I would be drawn to Baker Street like a moth to a flame.”

John was quiet for a moment. Then he said, slowly and deliberately, “You have this ridiculous notion that you have to do everything alone. Why do you have to be alone, Sherlock? I could’ve gone with you. I could’ve helped.”

“I know,” Sherlock replied. “I know. Now I know.”

John’s voice was light, but laced with something serious. “The next time you fake your death, I'm coming with you.”

“Gladly. A double suicide, both the detective and his blogger. I can imagine the gossip magazines now.”

John snorted, and then he buried his face into Sherlock’s chest and giggled. Sherlock shifted the two of them into a more comfortable position, ducking his head so that they were facing each other.

John’s laughter dwindled down until he was smiling, soft and sweet and slightly askew. Navy sea glass eyes fixed on Sherlock. John stared into him; not just at but into, and Sherlock wondered if this was how other people felt when _he_ turned his gaze upon them. If it was, he couldn’t understand why they didn’t seem to like it.

John swallowed. Opened his mouth, closed it again.

“We shouldn’t. This isn’t…” He trailed off.

“Isn’t what, John?”

“This isn’t what friends do,” John rushed out in a single breath.

Sherlock closed his eyes, something sharp and very much real solidifying in his stomach.

“Sherlock,” John said, his voice suddenly full of implication.

Not daring to tighten his arms (but wanting; oh, how he wanted), Sherlock lightly rested his chin against the top of John’s head and breathed in, careful to remember all of this, for surely it was to pass. “No,” he said, “it isn’t.”

He lingered for another moment, making sure all the details were correctly filed away (the temperature of John, thirty-eight; the angle of John’s legs, tangled with his; the exact current colour of his eyes). Then he began to loosen his hold.

John’s arms reached around and pulled him back in. “Definitely not.”

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath. His heart stuttered and skipped. “John?”

John's voice took on the slightest hesitation, his touch fleeting on Sherlock's back. “Yeah?”

Sherlock exhaled. His head dropped back down. Arms, embracing. John, staying.

Warmth.

“It’s still early,” Sherlock murmured into John’s hair. “You should sleep.”

There was a weighted pause.

“You, too,” John said. “Don’t pretend you’ve gotten any sleep in the past few days.”

Sherlock suddenly found himself smiling. “Good night, John.”

“You mean morning,” John mumbled, tucking himself neatly into Sherlock's arms, his breathing already evening out.

Sherlock waited until John’s chest was steady in its rise and fall. Then, he opened his eyes.

The sky was still dark. A thin ray of pale blue light streamed through the window and fell down upon John’s face. Wrinkles smoothed out, frown replaced by a smile.

Sherlock was holding him, he abruptly realized, the thought suddenly crashing down. John Watson was in his arms, his face lit in a soft glow, illuminated by moonlight, woken from a nightmare that would be no more. He would appreciate the sentiment of it all.

And yes, that was it, wasn’t it? Sentiment.

How curious.

Sherlock drew John closer, buried his nose into his hair, and closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I seem to have struck a strange well of inspiration for one-scene-one-take oneshots. I'm fine with that.


End file.
